


King’s Gambit Accepted

by Ponderosa



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Black Male Character, Canon Character of Color, Chess Metaphors, First Meetings, Friendship, Getting Together, M/M, Nick Fury Feels, Pre-Canon, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1777768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything about him says easygoing, from the way he undoes his cuffs and tosses the cufflinks to clatter beside the candles to the way he brushes back the fringe of his hair from his forehead. It’s all subterfuge: <em>Trust me, I’m an open book, money is no object.</em> Nick used the same damn tricks when he played the ambassador earlier, only that was all about jive and smooth talking and this is....</p>
<p>"So, who invited you to this shindig?" Pierce asks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King’s Gambit Accepted

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as usual to Blue Soaring who made for an excellent cheerleader and was very patient while I sobbed at her about my Fury and Pierce feelings.

_“The refutation of any gambit begins by accepting it.” -- Bobby Fischer_

Shouldering the door to his hotel room open, Nick pauses. There’s a vase of fresh cut flowers waiting for him on the narrow table beneath the window. He eases his suitcase down and eyeballs the envelope propped up beside the flowers. The room isn’t nearly nice enough to warrant a personal greeting and no one who would care knew he was taking the long way to his next post.

Spotting the stamp of the ambassador’s seal takes the edge off the alarm bells and Nick shakes off the tingle prickling his skin as he tears the envelope open. Inside is an invitation to a party and a stub for a tuxedo rental. He flips the card around in his hands. It’s hand-written yet unsigned--not so much surprising as curious.

He’d spent the last ten hours crammed into a coach class seat, and hadn’t planned on doing anything other than talking a stroll around the block to stretch his legs and then put his head to the pillow. Technically, he's on vacation.

Nick drops the card back on the desk and checks the flowers just to be safe; he’s gone through a lot of training in the last few months, and if nothing else it’s good practice. He does a quick sweep of the rest of the room and when he’s satisfied, he goes to wash a bit of the travel off him.

Ten minutes later, still dripping from the shower, he doesn’t hesitate to grab the phone and dial the front desk. Vacation or not, if he doesn’t go, the likelihood of figuring out who’s trying to give him a leg-up in this part of the world is slim to none.

*

The party at the ambassador’s palace is in full swing when Nick steps out of the taxi. He straightens his lapels as he assesses the crowd. Inside the gate it’s practically a red-carpet affair: a herd of white-haired men in black tie mills around, each one of the penguin suits accessorized by a young lady in a low-backed dress. He opts to skip the line and the majordomo’s announcement to take the side door. The posted guard doesn't look twice as he breezes on in, he notes, tucking the invite back into his jacket pocket.

Lax security when the city’s big money is on site doesn't bode well for proving wrong the rest of the rumors he’s been fed about his change of station. Nick keeps the scowl off his face. Shoddy guards here in Managua ain’t none of his concern; he’s bound further south. This little dress-up though is gonna give him a much-needed opportunity to kiss the ass of some the region’s movers and shakers.

He cuts through the kitchens and emerges west of the drawing room with a drink in hand. It’s a good starting point to wind through the scatter of guests. A cut-glass chandelier drips from the ceiling where a gilded staircase curves up to the second floor. With a posted sign and a bar set up near the foot of the stairs, people have broken into little clusters, most of them retreating into the nearby rooms where the doors have been thrown wide open. Half of the folks don’t bother to look his way. When they do, they give his watch a glance and when it ain’t a Rolex, well-- Nick won’t be crying himself to sleep about missing out on those little chats.

He practices his tradecraft while he works the room and it still takes him an hour to get close to shaking the ambassador’s hand. It’d be faster if his Spanish wasn’t a few phrases short of conversational, but he manages. It’s a good test for what’s waiting for him, and he can piece together meaning quickly enough to hold his own if he's addressed. When he finally does meet the man face to face, Nick sizes him up, swallows his pride, and cranks up the charm.

For once in his life playing the sycophant works in his favor. He comes away with an invitation to skip the hotel and stay a week in the palace. He gives himself a pat on the back and uses the buffet table to bide some time. Next up is trying to get a read on the local SHIELD section chief. He’s almost figured out the best angle of approach when a voice on his left says, “Don’t bother.”

Nick pauses in the middle of spooning some olives onto his plate. “Excuse me?”

The cultural attaché--Pierce, if Nick remembers the snippet of second-hand gossip correctly--flashes a smile at him. "Trust me, you’ll hate them. Try the canapés instead."

Never one to take anyone's advice over his own intuition, Nick stubbornly ignores the tray of canapés. Across the room, the section chief is still deeply interested in the neckline of the woman he’s with. “They look fine to me,” Nick says, taking an extra spoonful of olives out of spite.

"Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Pierce says, toasting Nick with his plate. He snags one last piece of fruit from the spread and ducks out with a breezy, "Enjoy the party."

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of glad-handing, useless chatter, and angrily regretting those goddamn olives. There aren’t many guests left when he manages to introduce himself to the section chief, and fewer still by the time his bags make it to the palace. The staff is busy sweeping the floors when he’s shown to a room.

It’s a far sight nicer than the airport hotel, he’ll give it that. Nick tests the bed and sits there on the edge of the mattress for a while looking at the palms of his hands. The rush of the evening comes crashing down and leaves him low. The toughest thing about signing himself up as a spook hasn’t been turning assets or executing missions, it’s not being free to send postcards home. Before he started running covert missions, he’d been sending word home from all around the world.

Nick sighs. The soft mattress and the air conditioning isn’t a comfort when he’s too worked up to sleep. Eventually, he resorts to pacing. When that doesn’t work, he opts for a longer walk and a smoke.

And that’s how he finds himself outside by the pool at half past three in the morning sizing up Alexander Pierce all over again.

"Canapé?" Pierce is draped on a chaise, still looking sharp. His jacket is abandoned somewhere else and the top buttons of his shirt undone. The tails of his bowtie frame the open vee of his shirt like slashes of ink. A tray of leftover hors d'oeuvres sits on the low glass table at his elbow and a trio of candles casts him in a mix of bright gold and deep shadows.

The way Pierce looks at him has the same casual air as before, but Nick can better read the deliberateness in his gestures. Everything about him says easygoing, from the way he undoes his cuffs and tosses the cufflinks to clatter beside the candles to the way he brushes back the fringe of his hair from his forehead. It’s all subterfuge: _Trust me, I’m an open book, money is no object._ Nick used the same damn tricks when he played the ambassador earlier, only that was all about jive and smooth talking and this is.... 

"So, who invited you to this shindig?" Pierce asks.

Nick runs a hand over the back of his head and digs the smokes out of his pocket. Light from a second-story window reflects in the rippling pool water. He shakes out a cigarette and hangs it on his lip. One of these days, he’s gonna quit.

Pierce sits up, his attention staying keen on Nick. “Okay then, something simpler: What do your friends call you?” The silence stretches for only a moment before he’s on his feet, tray in hand and nibbling at a bit of puff pastry. He gestures between the two of them as he swallows. “You know, I’d like us to be friends.”

Nick fights a frown and bets on Yale. It’s fifty-fifty whether Pierce is new money and brown-nosing in Central America to help secure the family fortunes or if he’s a trust-fund baby who skipped the free love to go straight to the revolution.

“Make a lot of friends in your line of work, do you,” Nick murmurs around the cig. The lighter clicks twice before a flame catches. “Aren’t you a novelist?”

“It’s an essential component of success, no matter how one pays the bills. Speaking of, are you in the country on business?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

Pierce’s laugh is genuine and disarming and hits Nick like a punch to the ribs. “It’s my job,” he says, flashing another silver-screen smile. “But clearly I’m curious as to what yours is, Lieutenant Fury.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. For the man to know his rank means he either sent the invite himself, or he made some inquiries. Nick revises his assessment of Pierce and ups the odds that the novel accredited to him is just a cover. The smoke swirling in his lungs helps take the edge off the new host of questions buzzing around inside his skull.

He looks Pierce head to toe and the resulting shift in Pierce’s stance could mean half a dozen things. There’s a large part of him that wants to stick around and tease out just what angle the guy is working, but Nick’s eyes are gritty with exhaustion and the smart call is to avoid the sparring until he’s caught at least a cat nap. Flicking ash onto the tile, Nick gestures at the canapés. “My job is my business, and I sure as hell ain’t the help, so you can keep that tray to yourself, _friend_.”

He’s retracing his steps towards the east wing of the building when Pierce calls out to him one last time. “Nice meeting you, Nick,” he says, voice carrying. “Tomorrow, 10am. If you’re up for it. You and me and the open water.”

*

This may have been a stupid idea, Nick concedes. He grips the metal railing that runs along the edge of the boat and watches the city recede. He’s never been on a vessel smaller than a ferry and yet even he can tell that the lake doesn't make for great sailing. Luckily, Pierce doesn’t try and rope him into helping with the mess of sails, and it’s two shakes before they’re a few miles offshore floating without a care.

It’s hot enough that Nick’s shirt sticks to the low of his back. He takes a seat while Pierce disappears below decks and considers a cigarette. He rubs his lip and chews on what he might be getting himself into here. Pierce is either what he says he is-- _fucking doubtful_ \--or he’s got an agenda and Nick’s become a part of it.

The slow drift of the yacht is peaceful and pleasant and irritation creeps under Nick’s skin like a splinter. It isn't like he doesn’t know how to relax, but nature has never been his element. He's city and always will be. 

Alexander motherfucking Pierce though, reappearing in his little white shorts and the breeze ruffling through his hair--it’s easy for Nick to imagine they're in the Hamptons and not halfway down the hemisphere. "No speedo?" Nick asks when Pierce is pressing an ice cold drink into his hand.

"I wasn't planning on taking a dip."

Just goes to figure that his sarcasm doesn’t make a dent, Nick thinks, watching from behind the security of his shades as Pierce takes a seat on the smooth wooden deck. Nick’s never been one to go for white boys, but he digs lean and limber and he’s finding it hard not to stare. It gets a whole lot tougher when Pierce stretches out like a sunning cat. It ain’t the slow roll of the deck that makes Nick’s stomach turn in on itself. “Tell me straight: Are you agency?” he ventures, taking a stab because why the hell not. Asking isn’t admitting his own affiliation.

The blunt question doesn’t even make Pierce blink. He simply takes a long sip of his melon drink and says, “Not yours.”

For a guy who looks like he could practically double for Captain America, Nick can’t quite believe Pierce ballsy enough to admit so easily to being MI6 or some other foreign outfit, but it’s dangerous to recognize he’s so quick to dismiss the possibility. “Foreign?”

“Would I tell you if I was?” Pierce counters. He tips his head back, rolling his neck lazily from side to side. He stops with his chin propped near his shoulder, gaze fixing solidly on Nick. “SHIELD,” he explains, and Nick has to work to keep the surprise off his face. Maybe the section chief wasn’t the guy he should’ve been laying skin on; the man hadn’t seemed half as quick as Pierce. “Can I ask what got you sent down here?"

“Damn good at my job.”

“I imagine so.” Pierce produces his own pair of shades, sliding them on as he gazes towards the distant outline of the city. A layer of haze obscures the tallest buildings. “Usually though it's less of a promotion and more of a punishment."

"Things are gonna change with me around."

“They already have.”

“Are you trying to poach me?”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

“You going to take me back to shore now that I’ve turned you down, Mr. Pierce?”

“Please, call me Alex, and no, not unless you dislike my company that much. Winning you away from the CIA was a long shot. I simply prefer to make friends over enemies.”

“What it is you SHIELD boys do anyway, besides refuse to share intelligence?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Pierce says, and Nick starts to wonder if he really is flirting. “SHIELD is and has been a beacon of progress, and we keep an eye out for exceptional individuals. You, Nick, are a cut above the rest, so whenever you tire of playing guard dog for Langley and take me up on the offer, you’ll have all the answers you can handle. Now, what I’m curious about is if you’ve chosen your strike team.”

“What strike team?” Nick says, playing dumb. After a long silence, he swears under his breath. “Why should I trust you enough to tell you?”

“Why should any man trust another?” Pierce crosses his legs at the ankle and lays down on the deck fully. With an audible exhale, his belly goes soft beneath the shelf of his ribs. “It's a lonely existence without someone to watch your back. Especially these days and in this part of the world. Regimes are changing--in large part due to your organization--and drugs are becoming big business.... I want to give you two pieces of advice. First, don’t choose that kid from Panama. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him next week--that is where you’re headed next, isn’t it?” There’s a too-short pause for the answer Pierce knows ain’t coming. “In any case, the second, and this is the important one, whatever your mission is, there are always options.”

“Options,” Nick scoffs. He shakes his head, absorbing the idea that Pierce knew a whole lot of classified information for someone so close to the ambassador. A bead of condensation drips down the glass and onto his finger. "You an idealist, Pierce?”

"Call me what you will, but you can't change the world if you're a cynic."

Nick sips at his drink. He tries not to let his eyes draw towards where the waist of Pierce’s shorts casts a shadow near the hollow of his hipbones. “I ain’t big on making friends.”

“Well, Nick, we can work on that.”

*

He and Pierce discuss area politics over breakfast the next morning and it’s an exercise in argument and counterpoint. Later, as the sun inches higher into the sky, Nick watches Pierce do slow laps in the pool until he emerges from the water, hair slicked to his skull and a shade darker towards honey. Nick tosses him a towel, and he registers surprise for a split second before he claims the nearest deck chair. Nick feels a vicious pang of satisfaction at having shaken things up.

Nick’s a little less subtle about eyeballing him when the sky turns to dusk, and even less so on the following day, when Pierce takes him out on the town to show him the sights and they finish out the night shooting the shit in some fancy rooftop disco. Come Friday, when Nick’s packing up and checking his bus tickets, he realizes he might even miss the guy. At the least he’s going to regret that they hadn’t gotten the chance to play another round of chess. For someone who learned by playing in the park, he’s held his own.

It doesn’t surprise him when Pierce shows up at his door bright and early to let him know a car has been arranged. Even if it had, the electric ripple that seizes his insides is almost overwhelming. For the first time in a long time, Nick doesn’t trust his own inner compass.

“What’s in the box?” he asks, nodding towards the slim, gift-wrapped package in Pierce’s hands. If he can’t sort out the hot stir of his guts, at least he can focus on Pierce’s excuse for seeing him off.

“Parting gift. If I’ve learned one thing about you in the past few days it’s that you’ve got a real sweet tooth.” He lingers at the door and watches as Nick lines up a row of books--Asturias, Garcia Marquez, a few other emerging authors Pierce had recommended as thought-leaders--all meant to do double duty and polish up his language skills.

Nick tucks the books into his suitcase and puts all his attention to study the picture Pierce presents on this final morning. The sleeves of his shirt are folded back halfway up his forearms and his left hand rests lazily in his trouser pocket. The tan of his forearms seems deeper where it lines up beside the creamy linen waistcoat. “That the only thing you’ve learned about me?”

“You still don’t trust me, do you,” Pierce says. He sounds more amused than anything. He tosses the box on the vanity next to Nick’s open suitcase and abandons the jamb to shut the door. “Caution is one thing. Paranoia is something else. I’m not the enemy, Nick.”

“Right, ‘cause you’re my friend.”

“Maybe someday if I’m lucky.” Pierce levels him with a gaze that’s brimming with secrets. “In the future, you’re going to see things that will be difficult to explain. The world is changing, the intelligence community is changing, and when you want answers, I might be in a position to give you a few.”

Nick gives Pierce a fresh once over. They’re having about three conversations at once here, verbal and obfuscated and one that’s entirely about the space that’s left between them. The sizzle that’d started up in his belly deepens and rockets along his spine. He eases his head back to look at Pierce through slit-eyes. “Are you going to make a move or just keep bringing me chocolates?”

“I could ask the same. I had faith you’d follow eventually,” Pierce says, and he’s already undoing the buttons to his waistcoat as he allows Nick to back him up against the wall. His eyes are wide, and not from fear--he holds Nick’s gaze steadily until they’re lined up so close a breath makes their bodies touch. “Too bad you’re leaving today.”

Nick slips a hand under the open leaf of Pierce’s waistcoat, his palm settling against Pierce’s side. The light fabric of Pierce’s shirt whispers along skin under Nick’s touch. “Too bad,” Nick echoes, and yeah, there’s some regret that they hadn’t gotten to this earlier. That club with the rooftop digs had some fairly dark corners, he recalls, but the brightness of midday makes it easier to read Pierce’s expression. Nick runs his hand down to get a feel at what Pierce is hiding in his pants, and the way his mouth softens when Nick palms him is worth the wait alone.

The urge to keep Pierce off balance has him lean in and start out gentle. He nudges that soft mouth open with his own and tastes mango on Pierce’s breath. “You like getting fucked, _Alex_?"

"I do."

Outside of Harlem, Nick’s never met a queen so comfortable in his own skin before. At least not one who goes for three piece suits instead of glitter or swish. His palm shapes the cock thickening under his touch and he feels the quiver in the press of Pierce’s leg against his own. A firm squeeze brings an aftershock and he considers sucking Pierce off until the man’s goddamn legs buckle.

All the buttons of Pierce’s shirt are opened now and he’s tugging the tails free. A little mussed up is a good look on him, and Nick’s pretty sure that if today isn’t a permanent goodbye, he's never going to see Alexander Pierce all pressed and primped and not think about how he looks right now in this moment. 

"I think it's about time you fucked me,” Pierce tells him.

“All good things,” Nick responds with a smirk, and makes it a mission to get Pierce thoroughly debauched before his dick feels the breeze. A nudge to the jaw has Pierce tipping his head back, giving it all up as easy as you please. Nick braces his hands on Pierce’s hips to pin him in place and tongues at Pierce’s throat until the hands grasping at his shoulders turn shaky and desperate, each clutch of fingers a mute request for friction. He licks a path up to Pierce’s ear, breathes a laugh there when Pierce’s hips jolt. Lips dragging along the smooth angle of Pierce’s cheek, Nick goes back in for a kiss, keeping everything slow and thorough, and when Pierce melts he goes like a goddamn avalanche. A hard, full-body shudder chases the low rumble of a groan spilling straight onto Nick’s tongue and the only thing keeping Pierce on his feet is the press of Nick’s body against his.

Feeling lightheaded with all his blood gone south, Nick can’t keep up the necking forever. He resents his own body for making him come up for air. Hauling their bodies tight, he sucks in a breath that makes his lungs ache and lets Pierce have a go at the hollow of his throat. After a moment, he looks down, waits for Pierce’s eyes to open, and says, “You want to get dicked, you get your fucking pants off.”

Dimly, Nick notes how Pierce needs to gather the strength to turn around. He can sympathize; it takes a lot more effort than it should to undo his belt.

Pierce’s chest goes flat against the wall as he pushes his trousers down, shorts dragging with them to bare the meat of his ass. With a mouth pressed to the back of his neck and hands spread at the low of his back, Pierce goes up on his toes. A shaky exhale marks the moment Nick’s cock rubs naked and hot against his skin.

"I expect you aren't planning on taking it raw."

Pierce's body quivers from a silent laugh, and sure enough, with a little digging around in his trouser pocket, he produces a small tube of Vaseline. Nick shakes his head. From everything he's seen so far, he shouldn't be surprised. Still, how often does a man meet someone who not only thinks three moves ahead but does it so damn successfully. Pierce's ankles inch apart like a reminder and Nick gives him an extra nudge, moving his foot aside until he's truly spread out and waiting.

It's been a long time since Nick's fucked someone he cares to hold a conversation with, and a rare tickle of nerves flutters around in his belly when he's all greased up and ready to go. He discovers that this time he's the one who has to steady himself as their bodies line up together.

With the way he arches his back, Pierce seems more than eager for it. He lets Nick do all the work regardless, and it's no hardship for Nick to fuck Pierce open with a mix of cockhead and thumb. Before long, Nick's putting wrinkles into his shirt and waistcoat--a handful of fabric crushed in his grip to expose both the slant of Pierce's shoulder blades and the columns of muscle low on his spine.

Pierce’s hands slap to the wall to give him the leverage to fuck himself onto Nick’s cock. It’s like he can’t wait to take the whole of it and is left frustrated that his body needs to adjust to taking more than just the head. Whatever the reason, it’s a good look on him: glisten of sweat at the nape of his neck, clothes a mess, a spear of sunlight through the drapes laying a glowing stripe across the tight muscled curve of his ass. Nick traces the bright line with the edge of his thumb, moving towards where Pierce’s skin goes from smooth to dusted with fine blond fuzz to furred with soft curls. Nick spreads his hand out and squeezes--all those little hairs catch in the sweat of his palm and Pierce gives a soft moan that’s almost lost beneath the groan building up in Nick’s chest.

The heel of his hand digs in past soft flesh to find rock-hard muscle, and Nick spreads Pierce open until there’s nothing obscuring the slow strokes that get him closer and closer to bottoming out.

When the slide gets easier and the lift of Pierce’s hips turns greedier, Nick firms his hold in the back of Pierce’s shirt. He’s in the groove now, fucking in firm and slow and finding enough ways to distract himself from giving in to the urge to just slam it until he comes. He mixes it up here and there to keep things interesting: sometimes jackhammering just to get Pierce’s balance to tip and make him steady himself, sometimes leaning back and tracing a finger down from Pierce’s tailbone to where the Vaseline’s got all those little hairs stuck in whorls, sometimes he gives that fine ass a squeeze again, peeling his hand away only to watch the ghost of the print appear in the middle of pink-flushed skin. He smacks Pierce on the flank and knows all the way to the heart of him that Pierce is going to remember this for a long time.

"Your bus arrives at t-two,” Pierce stammers, and Nick fucks into him hard enough to cut off his next word. He muscles in closer, flattens himself against Pierce’s back until all he can do is grind against him and feel the sweat gather wherever skin meets skin.

“Yeah, and--?” 

“You clearly h-have a great deal of stamina. I don’t come easily without a helping hand."

“Is that a request or a challenge?”

“What does three hours say to you?”

“Says maybe you think I can perform miracles.” Nick closes his eyes, hands wandering along Pierce’s sides as far as he can reach. “Says if I can keep it up before I cut out you’ll feel it for days.” 

“Oh, I certainly hope so,” Pierce murmurs.

Nick enjoys his time pressed up tight against Pierce, feeling each tremor and each squeeze meant to kickstart the fucking again. He enjoys it even more when he pulls out and leaves Pierce stunned and gasping.

“Get naked and pick the floor or the bed,” Nick says. His dick slaps hot against his thighs when he strips off his shirt and throws it towards the neatly folded stack waiting by his suitcase. He’s greasing up fresh when all Pierce has managed to do is pivot and slump weak-kneed, the wall doing all the work of holding him up.

“Floor it is,” Nick decides, and hauls Pierce to him by his shirt-front. He shoves the sleeves down Pierce’s arms, and answers Pierce’s pleasure-drunk grin with a smirk of his own.

In seconds he’s got Pierce stumbling and stripped down to nothing but his socks. Nick likes that view maybe more than he should, but after all the dancing around it feels damn good to know exactly where they stand with each other in this moment. Nick scrapes his teeth over his lip and tells Pierce to leave the socks on.

Pierce’s laugh this time is breathy and there’s color in his cheeks, a spreading flush almost as ruddy as his cock he’s so turned on. Nick doesn’t give him any time to recover and carries him all the way down to the floor, tells him to spread his thighs and then it’s heaven. He slots up and slides home, no jitters now, no taking it easy. He can fuck like a champion when he’s not beat, and the rewards play out on Pierce’s face. Each sound he jolts out of Pierce is like an accomplishment, a thrill that pins itself in the mapwork of his nerves. Thinking about how Pierce isn’t going to even want to sit down tomorrow keeps him going for a long, long time, and Nick’s damn good at mixing it up. He goes for kisses here and there to override the gut instinct to not slow down when he’s building back up to a jackhammer pace.

“You good?” he asks, easing when Pierce’s teeth stay buried in his lip and his smooth brow turns furrowed.

Those pretty blue eyes open to fix on him. That mouth, bitten red and shining, opens slack. He hooks his ankles around Nick and pulls him tight, makes him stay there. “Never been better,” Pierce says.

Nick jerks his hips forward, makes Pierce’s dick jump, and if he’s desperate to blow his load it must be a whole lot worse for Pierce. He ain’t complaining though, and Nick runs a hand up the center of Pierce’s chest. He spreads his fingers to push them through hair curled soft, taking note of the how different it feels from a gentle scratch beneath his palm he’s more used to. When Pierce’s body lifts to ask for more, Nick chuckles and says, “I believe it.”

Come tomorrow he’s going to have a bad case of rug burn across his shoulders, a bit of sway in his hips that ain’t rhythm, and a bruise or two on his thighs where Nick can’t help but keep a grip. Greedy, Nick thinks, as he scratches his nails right back down to where Pierce’s dick’s so hard that looking at it makes Nick ache.

Soon enough all he has left to give Pierce are his fingers, and even his own limbs feel shaky and worn out as he hooks them deep and makes Pierce whine. 

Pierce has an arm thrown over his eyes but his belly is slicked wet and each pull of Nick’s fingers gets a twitch out of both of them. Nick’s long-since figured out just the right kind of action that’d have him go off like fireworks, but why ruin the fun. He could do this all day if given the chance.

“Not too long before I need to split.”

A shudder goes through Pierce and he clutches up so sweetly that Nick throws him a bone and puts some real strength behind the push of his hand. “Well then,” Pierce says, between swallows of air, “I guess the clock’s ticking isn’t it.”

*

The bus is creeping along and the border is still hours away. Luckily the seats are comfortable enough that it doesn’t feel like he’s racked up hundreds of miles under his belt. His limbs are tired yet relaxed, pleasurable exhaustion continuing to purr in his veins like a good cigarette. Every bump and jolt is gravy, filling him with a dark satisfaction at what Pierce must be feeling.

With the sun having set, there’s no more watching the scenery roll by and Nick pulls out a penlight to finally take a look at the last novel Pierce had sent him off with. It’s got his name on the bottom of the dustjacket and _The Politics of Identity_ stamped in the sort of squared-off typeface that looks ten years out of style. Nick guesses the book is going to be dry, or pretentious--probably a bit of both.

Cracking the spine and skipping straight for the middle, Nick finds the prose is neither dusty nor overblown like he’d anticipated. He goes through a dozen pages before he flips back to the beginning and actually reads the dedication and the note penned beneath it. Running his thumb over the indentation of the letters, he idly notes that the handwriting doesn’t match the invite that had brought him onto Pierce’s radar. Funny how fate works, he thinks, spreading the book flat.

_Dedicated to our generation and the hope of a better tomorrow,_ sits neatly centered in block letters on the page.

The personalized message is shorter: _e4. Like the chocolates? Don’t be a stranger._

Nick’s laugh is loud enough to disrupt the backpackers crammed into the seats across the aisle. He tosses the book into his bag with the empty candy box and digs out one of those postcards he keeps picking up even though it’s too risky to write home. He scribbles his next move on the back and clicks off the light.

Motherfucker is going to make him have to buy postage.


End file.
